Truth & Lies: A Queen City Justice Novel (6 page)

Something about the situation brought out Deck’s long-dormant protective streak.

“Come on in,” he said, pulling the door open wider and stepping to the side and leaning against the wall for support. He couldn’t have said why he refused to pick up his crutch. It was, as always, within arm’s reach.

Mr. Mob Wannabe elbowed Freckles—Draghana—in the ribs, and she glared for the briefest of moments under her eyelashes before a shield went down over her face and she scuttled forward across the threshold as if her life depended on it.

The thug picked up her bag and handed it to Deck.

“She don’t speak much English,” he said. “You sure you don’t want me to take her back?”

Deck took the bag almost by accident, his gaze having returned to Freckles’s face.

He was torn between sending her on her way to avoid complicating his own miserable existence and…

He didn’t know.
Rescuing her?

Jesus. He couldn’t even rescue himself. What made him think he could rescue her, no matter what sort of clusterfuck she’d managed to find herself in?

His days of playing the hero were long gone.

She darted another look at her captor, and he broke just a little bit.

Fuck.
He was going to do it. He was going to take her in. “Welcome,” he said.

Mr. Mob let out a sigh. “Fine. I’m out of here. I’ll be back to check on you periodically in case there are any problems.”

Deck stared at the guy. Did he really want him showing up at his house unannounced? “Is that really necessary?” he asked.

“It’s just part of the service.”

This guy was pegging his creep-o-meter. The old adage about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer whispered through his mind.

“Call the Dream Come True office if you decide you don’t like her before I come back.” He executed an about-face and headed for his car.

Deck winced and checked to see if she understood what the thug had said. He couldn’t tell. She just looked shell-shocked, whether from the idea that she was now stuck with him or the possibility that she’d understood, he wasn’t sure.

He needed to figure out what was going on. Deck pulled back the curtain and watched the thug pull out of the driveway and committed his plates to memory before turning back to his guest.

Maybe he should help her find some place to stay, and then he could return to his life.

Such as it was.

He lifted her suitcase by the handle and set it down by the front door, not sure what to do with it.

“Did you just get to town?” he asked.

She looked at him with a bit of confusion, still holding the handles of her purse in a death grip.

With a welcoming gesture, he indicated she should sit in the easy chair in the living room. As she looked around, she was probably wondering what the hell she’d gotten herself into. He turned to follow her gaze around the room, looking with the critical eye of an outsider.

He’d bought and begun the process of converting the firehouse before his last deployment over a year and a half ago. In spite of his big talk online, he hadn’t really done much on it since then. His injury kept him from carrying on, and so he’d gotten used to the exposed studs where there should be walls, and the concrete floor that begged for carpet or hardwood or
something.

He’d tried recently with one of the living room walls. He had beat up fingers, and an ever-increasing level of frustration to show for it.

He swore, grabbed his crutch, and whirled away.

He had to find out what was going on.

He stalked—
slowly
—over to the table where his cell phone sat.

First call: the captain. And if that didn’t get him the answers he needed, there was always Immigration and Customs Enforcement. ICE might deport her, but at least he knew she would be in capable hands…unlike with that shifty Italian guy.

“You hungry?” Deck asked his new guest.

Her stomach rumbled audibly, and she smiled as her face turned red.

Those dimples affected him more than anything had in a long time. Which was ridiculous on a multitude of levels. First of all, he had no idea who the hell she was, why she was here, or what she was caught up in. Next, Deck Murphy had never been a sucker for “cute” before. He generally went for tall blondes. Ones with professional careers that were more important than him, so that they didn’t mind that he was on the job or out with the marines most of the time. Ones who liked having a well-built soldier and cop on their arm but didn’t really need a lot of social niceties.

Ones who could fuck like a dream and not mind when he disappeared before dawn. Ones who wouldn’t look twice at him now that he needed a crutch to get from place to place.

Hence why he hadn’t gotten laid since he left for A-stan over a year and a half ago and undoubtedly why “cute” was starting to look so good.

He cleared his throat, then pointed to the kitchen, made a “follow me” gesture, and limped that way.

She followed, sitting down at the granite breakfast bar where he indicated, and watched him throw together a few sandwiches and warm a couple of bowls of soup in the microwave. Deck tried not to notice her regard, all the while running through his options.

Send her back to where she came from.
He found himself shaking his head. Deck didn’t trust the guy who dropped her off. Hopefully the plates would turn up some more information. There was something shady going on there. The fact that they’d just leave her with him when it was clear he had no idea that he’d ordered a mail-order bride was wrong.

Keep her here.
An absurd proposition. He could put her in the guest room at the end of the hall. There was just a futon in there, but his brother, Mike said it was comfortable enough. He certainly wasn’t going to let her sleep with him.

First, he didn’t trust himself. The last year and a half of celibacy was suddenly feeling like a mighty long time. Second, he wasn’t up to explaining why he normally slept with the lights on. And third, if he had a nightmare—which he did most nights—he didn’t want to wake her or have to explain. And then, most importantly, he didn’t trust her any farther than he could throw her.

Help her get set up with an apartment.
Her profile had mentioned a student visa. Sure the University had dorms.

Call ICE.
He rejected that thought immediately even as he realized it was probably the right thing to do. At least the most legally right plan.

It was a legitimate solution, and he kept gravitating back to ridiculous proposition number two. He didn’t want to analyze the whys of that too closely.

But the squidgy feeling he’d gotten when her handler had offered to take her back made him hesitate. He could always look into her past. He was an experienced cop with a lot of time on his hands. He should be able to find out her background with his hands tied behind his back.

Decision made, he set a plate with a sandwich, a bowl of soup, and a glass of lemonade in front of her, then, taking the same for himself, sat on a barstool at the side of the island—near enough that he could read her face as he tried to talk to her, but not right on top of each other.

“Draghana,” he said, trying out her name. “Is that what people call you?” She hesitated, and he tried to clarify. “Your name?”

“My name Draghana. My family calls me…Dana,” she said finally.

“Dana,” he repeated, and she nodded. She looked like a Dana. “How much English do you understand?”

She smiled ruefully and held her index finger and thumb a short distance apart. “I take English in school. Long time ago. I try to remember fast.”

He chuckled. “Lots of luck with that.” Deck dropped his head into his hands.

“You not want wife?” she asked. “You were on site?”

He looked into her face as her gaze narrowed.

He shrugged. “I-I didn’t arrange for you to come here.” Deck hoped she’d understand.

“Who?” she asked. “How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.
Oh.
”

“What you do with me?” she asked.

“That would be the question of the hour.” He sighed. “Your profile said you had a student visa and that you were going to school here.  Did they have housing for you?”

She shook her head. “I say I stay with friends. I not…” She paused, looking down as if in shame. “No money for housing.”

“Okay.” Something about the way she’d said that seemed a little overplayed. The needle on his internal lie detector jumped for a second.

Her shoulders visibly loosened.

“Do you…” He tried again. “Do you want to stay here?”

She nodded quickly, her dimples showing just a bit, hope returning to her eyes.

He wasn’t generally a sucker for strays, but that didn’t stop him from feeling like he was drowning in the warm cinnamon-brown of her eyes. Jesus. What was he getting himself into? “We’re both going to regret this,” he said with certainty. “But you can stay.”

“
Hvala!
” she said. “Thank you.”

He eased back in his seat, looked over at Dana and caught her watching him.

She smiled sweetly but didn’t turn away. “I ask…uh, bad question?” she asked, wincing, which let him know it wasn’t quite how she wanted to phrase her inquiry.

“Ask away,” he said.

“How hurt your leg?”

Since normally his injury was the elephant in the room that no one talked about, it was both weird and a little refreshing that she’d been direct. He just didn’t know how to answer.

He glanced over at her.

“
Žao mi je
,” she whispered, her eyes downcast. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I was in the marines. I got shot in the leg. About five months ago.”

Her eyes met his. “Afghanistan?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Get better?”

He shrugged. “Hopefully.” But not so far, and he was quickly giving up hope.



Friday, November 21—2:00 a.m.

On the road near Columbus, Ohio

He couldn’t sleep. He’d been lying here, staring at the ceiling of the hotel for a couple of hours.

He missed her.
Anka.
She was perfection.

Perfection, but too far away. He knew he couldn’t be with her. Not now. Not for a few weeks.

After each time they were together, their time apart seemed to stretch longer and longer, so that he was only living for the next time he could see her.

He missed her throaty cries. The way her eyes begged when he came.

She was his first. Well, not his
first.
But the first who had ever mattered. That was why he’d always keep her safe. Safe for him.

He remembered the scent of her skin. How leaving his mark on her had felt to him. Like he was the king of the world. Similar to—though more pleasing than—leaving a hickey on a girl in high school. No one would ever think that she belonged to anyone but him.

He’d made certain of it.

He wondered what she was doing in her little apartment. He knew she was safe and well provided for there. His associate knew his job and the consequences of not following orders. He wished he could call her. Talk to her. Tell her what he was feeling.

But it was too dangerous. That was why he could see her only once a month.

He’d kept the clothes she’d been wearing and left her in his button-down dress shirt. It was much too large on her, and it made him feel even more masculine than her cries had. The tails of the shirt had reached to the middle of her soft thighs, and the sleeves had to be rolled three times just so he could see her hands.

By then, she’d been so mindless with what they’d shared that he’d had to roll them for her. He’d kissed each of her palms as he did so. She seemed to like that—so much it had made her cry.

He slipped from between the sheets and pulled her sweater out of the top pocket of his suitcase, wrapped in a black plastic bag where he’d hidden it to keep it safe. Burying his nose in the soft fabric, he inhaled deeply. It still smelled like her, though the scent was fading.

That made him angry. Made him wish for the second Saturday in December. It couldn’t get here soon enough. His hands began to shake. How could he wait that long?

He placed the sweater back in his suitcase and zipped it, then lay back down, burying his head in the pillows in the bed, wishing she were there with him. Wishing she’d said “I love you” back when he’d said it to her.

Was it possible she didn’t love him?

He shook his head. She’d tell him next time.

He could almost guarantee it.

Chapter Six

Friday, November 21—7:30 a.m.

Oakley Neighborhood, Cincinnati, Ohio

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay while I’m at work?” Deck asked. “I can take the day off if you want me to.”

Dana looked deep into his eyes and wished for some Jedi mind voodoo.
You want to leave for work. Right now.
She glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the kitchen wall. She had exactly twelve minutes from this second to get rid of her suddenly sticky “fiancé,” gather her bag, and make a mad dash for the bus if she wanted to make it to the meeting at FBI Headquarters.

“No. I’ll be okay.”
Go. Now.

He hesitated.

These are not the droids you’re looking for.

After too many precious seconds ticked by, he finally spoke. “Okay. If you’re sure.” He pulled a key off a hook by the back door. “If you go out for any reason, lock the door behind you,” he said, handing her the key. He slid a business card from his pocket and placed it on the kitchen counter. “Here’s my number at work. If you need anything, call. There’s a telephone on the wall.” He indicated the land line.

“Okay. Have good day.”

He slid his keys off the counter and, after a final wave, left through the front door.

Dana slid the key into her pocket and ran to the foyer, watching through the frosted glass of the side panels until his car backed out of the short driveway and headed down the street. She wished she had more time to wait to make sure he didn’t come back for any reason, but it couldn’t be helped.